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portrait was taken from life. Had Sir Walter placed it in the picturegallery of Kenilworth," it would scarcely have discredited his pencil.

In closing this section of my "Supposes" I must briefly revert to the accusatory speculation which introduced them. The editor of the pictorial "Taming of the Shrew," combating the conjectures of Messrs. Malone and Collier, relative to the period when Shakspeare reconstructed the comedy, asks whether it is probable that "the great creator of Hamlet, and Lear, and Macbeth, and Othello," would task himself to new model so inferior a play? and negatively assigns the literary larceny to "the early part of Shakspeare's career." Regarding the chronology of "Hamlet" as indisputably decided, Shakspeare's supposed seizure of Greene's supposed manuscript must have taken place prior to 1589. In that case would Nashe have contented himself with barely intimating isolated plagiarisms, when he might have justly denounced a flagrant, wholesale piracy? If Greene were indeed so grossly aggrieved, wherefore, instead of publishing his personal wrong, should he tamely avenge himself by a mere partnership innuendo? On the critic's own showing, "The Taming of a Shrew,' upon which the comedy attributed to Shakspeare is undoubtedly founded," was first printed in 1594, and then appeared without any author's name attached.

Two years previously to that publication Greene was in his grave.

SONNET FROM PETRARCA.

TO A FRIEND, CONGRATULATING HIM ON HIS RETURN TO
THE RIGHT PATII.

Love wept, and I with him mingled my tears

For thee from whom my thoughts were distant never :

After so many pains and doubts and fears,

At last to see thy soul unchained for ever.

Now to the throne of God lift up thy heart.

Since thou again hast turned to wisdom's way,
Thank him whose mercy could such grace impart,
Who turns not from his children's prayer away;
And if on turning to the high imprise

Some obstacles have checked thy onward course,
'Tis that thy soul may spread its wings and rise,
To meet the daring flight with all its force;
The path thou tread'st is thorny, dark, and steep,-
Then be thou strong, nor let thy valour sleep.

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF PETER PRIGGINS.*

COLLEGE SCOUT AND BEDMAKER.

PART XIX.

"AH, mong share P.," said Mrs. P., closing my last number, "I like that much, it makes one feel so miserably interested and excited. I'm sure the public will like it much better than all the larks and nonsense of the young men, Why don't you try something else, key song fore ler romong-something sentimental-like Abelard and Eloise?"

"What college was they hof?" inquired Dusterly; "hi never was hacquainted with hany gentleman with sich very queer names, and hi've knowd Hoxford for some years."

"Those unfortunate persons," said Mrs. P., were a French gentleman and lady as was very unfortunate in their flirtations, doo among miserables."

"Hi don't think the miserables disactly suits my friend Peter," said Dusterly; "he's hof too sanguinary ha temperature, and does better hin the funnies."

"Yes," said Broome, "I'm all for a little fun. 'Begone dull care,' was always my favourite song. The last story was all very well just by way of a change, like a glass of cider, instead of strong beer, on a hot summer's day, or a day's fishing in the long,' after working hard all term time."

"Yes," said I, "you're right, my friends; I ought to have adhered rigidly to the qualis ab incepto, and been satisfied with amusing my friends without attempting the pathetics. I must not return to that 'strain again,' but try and excite their risibilities as was my wont."

"Oh !" said Mrs. P., " there's no doubt you can make people laugh ~any other fool can do that-may voo ler cootay tro gra.'

I was about to prove my metal by returning iron-ical thanks to Mrs. P. for the compliment she had been pleased to pay me, when my boy, Nicomedes interrupted me, with a very dirty face, and a message from the Bursar, that he wished to see me immediately. I put on my coatfor we had been enjoying a pipe in the arbour, in our shirt-sleeves-and hurried down to college.

"Peter," said the Bursar, "I have just been reading your little story about Agnes Field, and although I do not mean to say you have not done justice to your tale, I think such fables are better avoided. You profess to write especially for the entertainment of your University friends and patrons, and you ought not to try and rouse the sensibilities of those who, by their college vows, are debarred the pleasure of exciting the sympathies of the fair sex. It's cruel, Peter, and I hate cruelty to man, woman, or beast."

"It was written, sir," said I, apologetically, "expressly for the ladies, and I have always found that they like to have their sensibilities excited by sentimentals."

Continued from No. ccxxxviii., page 347.

"Well, never mind, Peter," continued the Bursar, "I think it cruel, and cruelty I dislike. Open that basket, Peter, and you will find a very fine eel in it. The buttery-boy caught it last night with a nightline-he'll be punished for poaching some day or other-and as it's a fine, lively eel, I should like to have it spitchcocked. Eels, however, have not agreed with me lately, and in M. Ude's treatise on cookery I have discovered the reason. He says there is an empyreumatic oil just under the pellicle which is offensive to the stomach, and recommends their being tied to a spit, and roasted before they are killed. Now, Peter, I can trust you to take that very fine eel and roast him while animation remains in him, until by running a knife gently along his back, the skin will open sufficiently to allow the noxious oil to escape. To prevent the poor thing's suffering too much, you can kill him before he is fried. I can't trust Coquus, he has a heavy hand, and instead of merely tickling an oyster to induce him to open his shell, he murders him outright, and one loses the delicious sensation of feeling his dying struggles-which are merely muscular you know-as he is gliding gently down one's throat. Take the eel, Peter, cook him thoroughly, and treat him tenderly."

"Without rousing his sensibilities, you mean, sir, I presume?" "Certainly, Peter, it's cruel, and I hate cruelty in any shape."

In spite of these remarks of the Bursar, whose authority I never dispute, about the cruelty of rousing sensibilities and exciting sympathies, by narrating sentimental stories, I must relate a melancholy occurrence which happened to one of our gentlemen, even if I have sentence of cruelty passed upon me for recording it. I shall call it

THE DUEL IN PORT MEADOW.

Mr. and Mrs. "liberal and discerning public," allow me to introduce you to Mr. Straddle and Mr. Blowhard, both gentlemen, and gentlemen-commoners of St. Peter's College, Oxford. They are, you will observe, sitting in their dressing-gowns, for it is a warm summer's evening, eating Wytham strawberries and drinking their claret; drinking, mind, not sipping it, for both are fond of Laffitte, and neither of them is addicted to the" total abstinence" system.

"Come, Straddle," said Blowhard, "help yourself and pass the bottle. You seem melancholy, man, what ails you?"

"You can't wonder at it, my dear fellow," said Straddle, sighing and filling his glass, "when you consider under what deplorable circumstances I am growing old."

"Ha! ha! growing old indeed! that's rather too good; to talk of growing old at six-and-twenty."

"Eight-and-twenty, eight-and-twenty, on my honour, Blowhard. I entered the army at sixteen, and after serving six years as an ensign in a marching regiment, my well-meaning friends suddenly advised me to 'exchange' all my hopes of a gory bed upon some well foughten field' for the family incumbency of Plumstead, likely to be vacated by that sound but apoplectic divine, my maternal uncle, Philoneicus Polemic."

"And a very good exchange too," said Blowhard. "No chance of getting on in the army in these piping times of peace, without pur

chase, unless, indeed, you can boast of a commander-in-chief for your godfather."

"Very true," continued Straddle, "but here have I been four years resident in Oxford and what have I got by it?"

"Got? Why you have got-into debt, haven't you?"

"True again. That's easily got, any where, but beyond that I cannot even get my testamur for my little-go, though I've been up three times for it."

"Why, you've only been plucked once."

"No, but I bolted twice, and that's very nearly as disreputable, and quite as unsatisfactory. How they could expect that I, who never relished grammar at fourteen, could take to it at four-and-twenty, I cannot conceive. I hate college."

"Well, never mind, old fellow," said Blowhard, "you can't hate it worse than I do. I always wished to go to sea, but my father, the admiral, said I had not brains enough for a powder-monkey, and was only fit for a parson. So here I am, with the pleasing prospect before me of getting a chaplaincy on board a man-of-war, and being sent down into the cockpit to help the surgeon, instead of fighting on the quarter-deck."

"It's a regular bore, certainly, "said Straddle; " but come, I'll give you a toast-here's confusion to all misjudging paternities."

Just as Mr. Straddle was raising his bumper to his lips, a single rap at his room door induced him to set it down again and dash into his bedroom.

"Come in," said Blowhard.

"Is Mr. Straddle at home, sir?" said Finedraw, the tailor, just poking his nose into the room.

"what do you want?"

"No, he is not," said Blowhard, "Just brought home three new coats, four pair summer trousers, and -and-and-his little account, sir."

"You'd better leave them, Finedraw, and call again, he's not in now."

"Beg pardon, Mr. Blowhard, but I rather think he must be in," said Finedraw, pointing to the full glass opposite the empty chair, "and I've a very large bill-"

“Think, sir, do you mean to say you think I'm telling you a lie, sir, leave the clothes and the room.'

Mr. Finedraw made a low bow and did as he was desired-for he was used to it.

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There," said Straddle, "that comes of being young scout-the old one's 'sport oak' by instinct. wait on me himself I must hire a private tiger.

dunned."

waited on by a If Peter can't I hate being

"Why don't you pay every term, then ?" said Blowhard, "it's much the best plan."

"Decidedly," said Straddle, "when you've got the tin to do it with, which I haven't."

"Why run in debt then?"

"How can I avoid it when the fellows are so polite and pressing for my custom? If I order a coat the fellow persuades me that I want two

at least; and it was only the other day that I ordered six wash-leather waistcoats of old Quarterman, and he sent me in three dozen."

"Why didn't you return them then?" "Oh! that's too much trouble. day or other. I've boots enough to nuisance being dunned perpetually. off my ticks soon, though.'

Besides, they'll all come in some last me my life. Heigho! it's a I've serious thoughts of paying

"Any chance of a legacy then? or is the governor rickety ?” inquired Blowhard.

"No, no, my dear fellow, no such luck. I mean to sacrifice myself to the interests of my duns by marrying a middle-aged woman with an immensity of pewter," answered Straddle, opening another bottle of Laffitte.

"Capital claret," said Blowhard, inhaling the bouquet, "what do you give a dozen ?"

"I really haven't the most distant idea. Scott sends it in and I drink it. I suppose I shall know some day or other. It is very good, and when I'm married I'll take all he has left, and pay ready money for it."

"Who is the lady? Name her, and we'll drink her health, wishing her luck with her bargain."

"That," said Straddle, "I can't do, as I'm still upon the look out. There must be many women though about, who would not sneeze at such a figure as mine, though I'm rather inclined to be stout."

Mr. Straddle displayed an excess of modesty in thus describing his personal appearance. He was fat-very fat-though tall withal, and it was whispered among his companions in arms that he left the army because he used to perspire violently on parade.

"Well," said Blowhard, "as you're a good sort of a fellow, and would make a liberal use of your money if you had it, I think I can give you a wrinkle."

"What, in some old woman's face?"

"Not so very old. Under five-and-forty I should guess, and not so bad-looking, when you see her behind."

"Never mind her looks so as she has lots of tin," said Straddle. "Who is she? Not a widow, I hope, as they are up to too many dodges for me. Catch a weazle asleep, eh?"

"You know the freshman that came up the other day?" inquired Blowhard.

"Why we have had three raw recruits this term," said Straddle.

"I mean the man who, as you army men would say, 'joined,' or, as my nautical dad would express it, 'came on board' last. The little, thin, slim, and trim gentleman-commoner who combs his hair down each side of his face, and wears his shirt-collar turned down to look poetical."

"Well, you don't want me to do the matrimonial with him, I suppose?" said Straddle, shuddering.

"No, certainly not," continued Blowhard; "but he has brought up a tame aunt with him, who is deputed by his mother, who is in India, to look after him during his campaign in college-to see that he combs his hair, cleans his teeth, and don't drink more than two glasses of

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